


Night Lay Beside Me

by DesMotsComme_Violence (TheFire_in_the_NightSky), poetica (TheFire_in_the_NightSky)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Southern Gothic AU, The Fix-It AU Only I Wanted, Unreliable Narrator, Vampire Violence, Weird West
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26472418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/DesMotsComme_Violence, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/poetica
Summary: John’s heart slowed, beat like a gust of wind in his ears every few seconds. Every inch of him felt cold, but he couldn’t move, no matter how much he wanted to curl into a ball, trap what body heat he had left against ‘imself. Could only lie there, staring at the goddamned stars, feeling his pulse fall further away each minute that passed. And then, John’s lungs constricted, as if he were drowning. He tried callin’ out, for God knows what. There were so many stars out in the darkness.So many bodies.Body in the alleyway.Red and red and redder.John trying to grapple with the strange man who bit him. John’s knife sinking into his neck. Blood spattered into John’s mouth.Blood in his mouth.**Please mind the tags; I don't write vampire "fluff." I write monsters having tragic love affairs.**
Relationships: Abigail Roberts/John Marston(past), John Marston & Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43





	Night Lay Beside Me

**Author's Note:**

> I'd planned to write this damned thing for awhile now, and I'm fucking thrilled to get it out finally! This is terribly self-indulgent, as horror is my comfort zone, and I do so enjoy writing vampires. If you follow me on any social media platform, you already know a giant chunk of my heart belongs to the game, Vampyr (and perhaps you may recognise my other pseud credited here).  
> The body horror tag is there as a precaution, because I have taken inspiration from Scott Snyder & Rafael Albuquerque's vampire designs from their _American Vampire_ comic series. And the vampire species that series mainly centers on go through a bit of a transformation at will. This fic was inspired by some of the comic's lore and a couple nods to the film, Near Dark, because Bill Paxton's brilliantly hammy performance as Severen is one of my favourite things.
> 
> Title from [Dax Riggs - "The Terrors of Nightlife"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3LFTq4Jjvihrr2ntuFqwsb?si=3lM2q2HzSialXz2hgHUDZA)

_From short (as usual) and disturb’d repose,  
_ _I wake: how happy they, who wake no more!  
_ _Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.  
_ _I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams  
_ _Tumultuous; where my wreck’d desponding thought  
_ _From wave to wave of fancied misery  
_ _At random drove, her helm of reason lost.  
_ _Though now restored, ’tis only change of pain,  
_ _(A bitter change!) severer for severe:  
_ _The day too short for my distress; and night,  
_ _Even in the zenith of her dark domain,  
_ _Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.  
  
  
_ \- Edward Young, excerpt from _Night Thoughts_

* * *

It hadn’t been the whiskey this time, that did ‘im in. Least not the whole of it, anyhow. John became especially sure of that the more he awoke, shifting around in his cot. He’d set out to get soaked last night, sure. And he recalled doin’ just that– drownin’ his sorrows halfway through a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and feeling all kinds of sorry and shame for himself for having been far too drunk to find a woman willing to let ‘im pay to feel like a proper man again. So he’d wandered the streets of Saint Denis, bottle sloshing in his right hand, Old Boy guardin’ his left, and mumbled both bawdy and lovelorn songs to ‘imself and tried not to trip over his own boots.

Last thing he remembered mostly, was reachin’ the church and hearing what sounded like a scuffle or mugging across the way. Things got kinda muzzy after; John’s memory came and went in bits and pieces. Like bein’... well, real damn drunk.

John hauled himself up, thirsty as all hell, aiming to find the nearest water barrel to drink his fill. Hoped the cool water would maybe alleviate the ungodly pounding between his ears some, too. But Christ, did he feel like a mound of horseshit baked in the hot sun. Maybe he’d even try a bit of the _“hair of the dog,”_ or _“the Cure”_ that Sean and Javier were always tellin’ him worked real well against mean hangovers. Anything.

The sun stung his eyes like he just got punched square in his nose. That alone nearly made John turn tail and head back into his tent.

Everything was too bright, too much all at once: the light that crept in through the tree cover, the sun casting off the lake's mirrored surface, the idle noise of camp, even. And Pearson's stew would have normally sent his stomach into a fit of hunger, even despite the bland taste, but now, now it just had John feelin’ nauseated.

First things first, John wandered off to take a leak, then trudged hisself over to a nearby water barrel to sip from the ladle, quickly regretting it. The water didn’t sit right in his belly, and he felt dizzy. Grabbed onto the barrel edge with both hands to steady himself. His reflection looked worse than usual, staring back at him in the rippling water. Dark circles were more apparent under his eyes and his skin looked a little sickly.

Surely he hadn’t drank _that_ much, had he?

John had to lie down, needed to get his legs to carry him back to his tent. Then maybe the world would stop spinning and he could sleep this off some more. Goddamn.

John was mostly successful in doing so until a deep voice stirred him awake what felt like too short a time later.

“You alive in there?”

By the dark silhouette Arthur cut, John was surprised in his realisation that evening’d already come. The fire was a flickering glow out behind Arthur, but its warmth looked inviting now, not so offensive to John’s eyes like the morning had been earlier.

John sat up, dismissed Arthur’s feigned concern. “Drank too much, is all. Just leave me be. Don’t gotta worry about it.”

“You down some bad ‘shine? Ain’t like you to be put on yer ass this bad, Marston, no matter how much liquor. Been in here the whole goddamn day. Jack was asking’ after you.”

“Yeah? Well tell ‘im I’m dyin’. Feels like it, anyway.”

A disappointed sound escaped between Arthur’s teeth. “And where’d you run off to the other night? Gone without a word, an’ you come back like _this.”_

Sure as shit wasn’t the time John felt fit to have another round of this type of conversation with Arthur. Just wanted to close his eyes again. Focus in on the quiet between the noise. “Went into Saint Denis for a couple days. Thought some. Drank some. Lost some money.”

“Now, only two of them things is believable.” There was the rustle of the tent flap falling behind Arthur as he walked in, and they were momentarily plunged into darkness before Arthur lit a match. He cradled the tiny flame between his broad palms and brought it towards the small table where John kept his old kerosene lamp. Soon, the room was awash in a comfortable, deep yellow, and each surface was softly gilded with it as Arthur raised the wick. Arthur, though… Arthur looked an awful lot like how John felt. Like he hadn’t slept in days. Like life had kicked the shit out of him and spat in his face for good measure. But when Arthur sat on the edge of John’s cot, somewhere he hadn't been in damn near a month– well, up close, John _still_ thought Arthur was just about the finest lookin’ fella he’d ever laid eyes on.

He remembered suddenly, just how lonesome he was.

John was about to say something bitter about it all, something liable to get them arguing, but a sharp, throbbing ache in the entirety of his right shoulder interrupted him with staggering force. John doubled over onto his bed, curled away from Arthur. Below the sounds of his own stifled curses, he could just make out Arthur frantically askin’ him what was wrong– if he needed to vomit, if he wanted Arthur to fetch him some water.

“Ain’t my _goddamn stomach!_ It’s my _arm!”_

Arthur pawed around where John clutched at the cap of his shoulder. His touch felt like a flame and John flinched away violently.

“Jesus, John,” Arthur gasped the words, “feels like you got a hell of a lot a’ dried blood crusted into your shirt. You get shot and not tell anyone?” John shook his head while Arthur attempted to make quick work of the buttons on his shirt front and union suit beneath. And God… _Goddamnit,_ of course it was only something like this that could let John be undressed in bed by Arthur again. Just his usual fucked up luck.

“Stabbed?” Arthur tried again as his hands moved over fabric and skin. And that was when John started to recall things a little more. Like hazy picture slides going by too quickly. Saint Denis. An alleyway. So much blood. A man, he was… he'd been...

John tried to push Arthur’s hands away, but finally, he saw for himself the stain of blood soaked into the sleeve of his union suit as Arthur peeled it down. It was as if John could still smell it, sweet and metallic, mingled with the scent of days’ old trail dust and his own sweat. How'd he not notice before? The blood stuck to the hairs on John’s arm and pulled. Every nerve became too raw when Arthur roughly stripped the top half of him. John gritted his teeth.

_Teeth._

His gums ached bad as a punch in the mouth, and he was awfully thirsty again, tongue feeling gummy no matter how much he salivated suddenly. And the pulse, right below Arthur's thumb, John could feel it like an echo off his skin. Felt it strongly in the grip against his own arm, and then across his chest as Arthur manoeuvred him around a little.

“You’re goddamn burnin’ up…”

“Think… think I’ll take that offer of water after all.”

At John’s croaking request, Arthur gave him a mean glare. “Sure, after I figure out just what the Hell you’ve– Jesus Christ.” Arthur sat back away, dropped his hands from John’s shoulder. “John… how long ago did you get bit by a snake?”

“...wasn’t a snake…” John made an attempt to dodge the palm that pressed against the side of his neck.

“Wolves weren’t good enough? Decide to roll around in the grass, see what might find you for a meal next? Did you see what kinda damn snake it was, at least? Christ alive, Marston, I swear…” Arthur’s voice was startin' to sound far away. John’s head lolled to the side, searching for him. He thought maybe Arthur got up, finally come to the conclusion John was a lost cause and always had been.

But, Arthur was still right beside him. He had a hand on John’s wounded arm, pressing hard around the bite with his thumb, and John swore if he had the wherewithal to reach for one of his revolvers, he’d shoot Arthur, or at least knock ‘im with the butt of it. Instead, he damn near bit his own tongue off trying to muffle his pained cries. Kicked and scraped at his thin mattress tick with his boot heels. Cursed Arthur’s name to Hell and all the rest.

“Didn’t see no fuckin’ snake... because there weren’t one, I said!” John’s voice found its way past the distracting pain throbbing in his arm and shoulder, making his throat constrict. 

In somethin' John could only decipher as confusion, Arthur's brow tucked heavy over his eyes and his hands were stuck up like he were surrendering to John. So John carried on with his explanation best he could tell it.

“Was… some strange, bald-headed asshole– in Saint Denis. Strange lookin’ and strange how he acted. First he had… had a man, up against the wall by the neck. Real bloodied up. Bad. Figured he’d stabbed ‘im, or slit his throat, tried to rob him. You know how it goes.”

Arthur nodded and put his hands down, rested one on John’s knee. “Sure, sure.”

“Well, guess I thought I’d see what was what but, the man– the one I thought was bein’ robbed… he was dead, or mostly soon to be. Dropped to the ground like a fallen tree. And the weird lookin’ feller… Son of a bitch tried telling me he fancied himself a _vampire.”_ Now, it all seemed even more ridiculous having heard the short tale come out his own mouth. To have heard it be told aloud. John started to chuckle. “Bastard jumped on me!”

“You… what're you tellin' me, exactly?” There was a look of doubt mixed with a real cautious worry as Arthur continued to speak, “That you got in a bad scuffle with some sick-in-the-head bastard who read Stoker one too many times?”

John gestured to his shoulder, frustrated. “I'm _trying_ to tell you he’s the one what bit me!”

Arthur scrubbed a hand down the shadows cast over the side of his face. “John, that ain't the bite of no man. Looks to me like you got the start of a nasty, deep infection already, regardless. And yer sayin' this happened _last night?_ Bite looks days old with how turned it is, not to mention how bad off you are.”

 _“Yes,_ it was last night. When I was still in Saint Denis, 'fore I came back, I guess. You even listenin’? Got drunk because you– aw, hellfire…” John saw the way Arthur narrowed his eyes. Knew he was about to hear it.

“You’re like a spoiled goddamn _brat,_ Marston. Little Jack’s more agreeable than you. I turn you away _one_ night, tell you we gotta be more careful out this way right now an’ you go and get yourself so damn drunk you pick a fight with some man that belongs in bedlam. We can’t afford more attention brought on us, John. You know, you really are a piece a’ work, just like Abigail said. Reckon I can see why she finally had ‘er fill of your horseshit.”

“Just stop, goddamnit! I’m not sore over that no more. I get it,” John hissed, trying to keep his voice down and his ego up. “Ain’t asking you to believe me, and I also ain’t sayin’ I believed that sick fuck. But he still killed a man and he tried to do the same to me.”

Arthur canted his head towards John with a small, crooked smile. “He have fangs?”

“Actually, yeah. He did.” Hearing John’s answer, Arthur appeared to be shocked, which fast turned into somethin’ like disappointment. Likely thought John was spinning more yarn into his strange tale. “Arthur, there was… _a lotta blood._ I mean… between that poor bastard bein' laid out, mine, and then the creep's when I stabbed ‘im in the neck. Last thing I remember was tryin’ to wipe the blood off my face with a handkerchief so I could walk back to Old Boy without the chance of somebody seein’ me like that. Things’re… real spotty after. Then I woke up here, this morning.”

The judgemental silence Arthur gave him in response spoke a lot louder than any further reprimanding. Finally, Arthur grumped at John, “Yeah well, you better hope you weren’t seen and that man you stabbed is dead. Lie down, would you? I’ll– I’ll be right back.”

And Arthur did come back, possibly more grouchy than before, with a cup of water and a little crinkled aluminum tube of what John guessed at bein’ some kinda ointment.

“You got any kinda bandages around? Guess I’m clean out. If not I can raid the reverend's–”

“Yeah, sure, over in that drawer.” John pointed, and felt some type a’ way seeing Arthur root through his things, knowin’ Arthur kept some of his spare shirts hidden in the squat dresser. “Uh, second drawer, try.”

Arthur bundled the sloppy roll of cotton strips once he found it and wordlessly instructed John to turn onto his good side, faced away from Arthur. John could hear water being poured from the chipped pitcher kept by his wash basin, then felt Arthur’s weight sag the mattress tick as he sat behind John.

The rag was a bit rough on the sensitive area around the bite, but the water's coolness wasn’t too bad passed across John's fevered skin.

“Could do this sittin’ up just fine, y’know…” John caught himself grousing to cover the way his whole body went a little tense at Arthur’s touch. He was real gentle in how he cleaned the dried blood from around the wound and smeared a layer of strong-smellin’ ointment over it. “Ain’t a child.”

“Mm. You were swayin’ like a dead tree in a storm.”

Huh. Well, whatever. Even still.

“Thanks… I guess.”

“An’ I _guess_ yer welcome.” There was a smile in Arthur’s voice, John could be sure of it. He forced away his own grin in favour of lookin' over his shoulder to see for himself before that rare sight faded. He weren't so lucky. “Still don’t think a man did this.” Arthur’s forehead wrinkled in concentration, now that he wound a tied-together length of cotton strips around John’s bicep and shoulder. “Looks like a bad snake bite, to me. Teeth marks are too close together where they go in. Now, hold still.” He nudged at John’s shoulder, causin’ him to wince. John complied quickly, turning back around. Lifted his body when prompted so Arthur could secure more of the bandages ‘round his ribcage. Smartass patted John kindly like his damn horse when he finished.

John resigned himself to staring at the darkness of his tent wall while listening to Arthur’s boots shuffle over to the small chest of drawers again as he put away the leftover bandages and set the wash basin back. Arthur cleared his throat quietly, but it turned into a real fit of coughing that sounded bad enough to have John rolling over and sitting up, heedless of his pain. He was tempted to go to Arthur’s side, seein’ him hunch with each cough muffled into the crook of his elbow. Knew Arthur wouldn’t like the mollycoddlin', though. Least, that's how he'd take it.

“Hey, you all right, Arthur? That don’t sound too good.”

Arthur waved off John’s concern. Strained his usually strong voice ‘til he went hoarse. Was strange, hearin’ it. “I’ll be fine, just– just gimme a minute–”

“Here, where’s that water you brought?” John searched around the dim until he saw where Arthur’d set the cup down on the chest at the foot of the cot. He grabbed it and went over to Arthur, a careful hand on his back as John offered up the water.

“I’m okay, m’fine, I said.” Arthur cleared his throat some more between a couple lingering, dry coughs. “Y’need it more than me.”

“Hey,” John brought his free hand to Arthur’s waist, took a single, daring step forward. In this short amount of time, Arthur somehow started looking even more weary. His eyes were bloodshot, and John thought he’d paled a little, too. “You doin’ all right? Tell it to me straight. Don’t gimme that ‘I’m fine’ shit again when it’s clear that ain’t the case. I know… I know shit’s been rough lately, and I ain’t been helpin’ matters. But I think I got a right to know how you’re faring.”

Arthur avoided John’s gaze, tried to walk away. John advanced even closer.

“And I’ve told you. So how ‘bout you worry over yourself, John.”

John’d had a scare with Arthur – well, they all did, he supposed – when Colm O’Driscoll had taken Arthur and damn near killed ‘im. To this day, John was still havin’ trouble forgiving Dutch for downplaying that whole fucked up debacle. So maybe John did a lot of frettin’ over Arthur more than was necessary ever since. Couldn’t really be helped when a man cared like this. Arthur did the _same goddamn thing,_ anyhow. Always told John how he was tired of savin’ his hide, but said it like he was more scared than pissed over the supposed inconvenience.

“Think you got me covered on that.” John tipped his cup in salute towards Arthur before he took a deep drink, nearly draining it. Felt like the water helped his scratchy throat, at least. Didn’t look like it settled Arthur’s disquiet none, though. “Now you.” He pushed the cup against Arthur’s chest, but Arthur nearly knocked his hand away.

“Knock it off. Just don’t need you kickin’ up a fuss ‘cause of me.”

John sighed and drank the rest of the water ‘imself. Leaned purposefully into Arthur’s space as he reached past him to set the cup on his dresser. “I know you don’t.” John endeavoured for something tender, lifted his hand to touch the side of Arthur’s worn face.

Arthur swayed into it a little, eyelids heavy. But he turned away suddenly, grabbing up the basin of bloodied water. “Gonna go dump this,” he grunted.

The sloshing of water gave off the smell of John’s blood. Released it into the air; particles of it dripping thick and syrupy and reaching John’s nostrils. Sticking there. Coating until he thought maybe he could taste it on the back of his tongue. It was a smell that calmed and nauseated him in equal measure.

When John came back to himself, Arthur was gone.

“Son of a bitch,” John cursed the empty air. He started feelin’ kinda woozy again, so he sat down on his cot. Waited for Arthur even though he badly wanted to lie back and close his eyes.

Arthur looked a little better than he had a couple minutes ago when he returned. Not by much, though. He set the basin down and came to sit with John.

“Maybe you should use an extra blanket tonight. Help break that fever.” Arthur began turning down the single wool blanket on John’s bed.

“Ain’t that serious. Think I’ll be better with some more rest.” John could smell the stink of the ointment on his arm. And blood. Christ, he didn’t remember blood smelling so strong. Not unless it were enough to bet a man wasn’t gettin’ up again.

That made John think of the odd man in the alley. And the fella that creep had killed. The taste of blood–

“John, lie back for me, huh?”

“Wh– Oh. Yeah... Yeah, sure.” John sensed his face grow even hotter. Found ‘imself unable to really look at Arthur.

John was about to do as asked when Arthur grabbed his chin and quickly leaned in to kiss ‘im. Things deepened only when John tilted his head to the side a little, and Arthur ghosted his fingers over John’s cheek. The kiss lingered, though it didn't turn into much more than a single brush of tongue. John hated himself for thinkin’ it all as _sweet._ But there it was.

Arthur pulled back first, hand still warm at the side of John’s face. “Ain’t changed my mind about you. Things’ve just… I didn’t change my mind. But we can’t be stupid. Not with all them extra eyes on the lot of us now.”

“Yeah… yeah, I get it. Trust me, I do.”

Not another word was said as Arthur got up and turned down John’s lamp. John lay down, hands clasped over his stomach, trying to ignore the ache in his arm and shoulder. Kinda wished he had more whiskey now.

Standing in front of the flap of the tent, Arthur kept his back to John as he spoke in a low hush, “You _need_ me, you know I’m not far.”

Despite his fever, John felt cold in Arthur’s absence. Guess that could always be his temperature too though, makin’ him feel as such. Didn’t have the energy to ruminate over it too hard.

That night, John dreamt about being covered in bloodied bandages. Dreamt about the snow in Colter falling upon his body until that massive white blankness was suffocating him. It melted as it filled his mouth when he called out a name. Couldn’t see anything but red when he closed his eyes. Water flooded his lungs. Tasted metallic.

John awoke wishing Arthur were beside him, in reach. Sitting up, his shoulder spasmed, makin’ him grit his teeth. John put his hand to his arm and quickly realised blood had seeped through the bandages. Red ringed with yellow. Weren’t much, but still more than a single bite mark should bleed. He stripped off his dirty union suit and made sure he threw on a dark-coloured shirt when he got redressed.

Outside, John felt the heat of Lemoyne keenly. The air was sticky and thick; mosquitoes whined by his head. The mood of camp was still downtrodden since Sean’s death ‘bout a week ago. The women didn’t know what to do with Karen and her drinkin’ all the time now. The men appeared even more lost. And they were all wary about what to do next with the Grays and Braithwaites now that Dutch’s plan was seemingly ruined. Figured that was what’d been eatin’ at Arthur, too. Especially concerning Sean. Arthur had always joked around with him, seemed they got on real fine. John wasn’t close to Sean by any means, but the kid had always struck John as good enough, even if he did run at the mouth pretty often. Fella was a trip. And John guessed he was sad to see Sean gone, too. Didn’t like no losses to their family.

Couple folks asked in passing how John was feeling. John answered them with ill-defined explanations and assurances. Any focus on his well-being felt undeserved and wrong, considering. Pearson told ‘im he just had to eat a decent meal, that Arthur’d been keeping ‘em well stocked. John had noticed Arthur goin’ out more and more often, maybe not for longer stretches of time, but lengthy day trips gone hunting. Didn’t let John come with him much anymore, though. Had once said he weren’t good company. Moodiness or not, John was always pleased to be in Arthur’s company, but he hadn’t argued then. The one night John had invited ‘imself, well… that had landed him where he was currently, feelin’ some type a’ way after having been turned down. Felt a few types a’ ways, really. None of ‘em good.

John headed for the stew pot, but he didn’t think his stomach could handle food just yet. He was feelin’ a little faint again, to be honest. Went for some coffee instead. Maybe that would pick him up.

Standing in the shade was a little better, just weren’t by much. John found himself staring at the ground mostly, tryin’ not to get the sun in his eyes. S’goddamn bright. Should have been wearin’ his fuckin’ hat. John had taken two steps in the direction of his tent when Jack ran up to him, holdin’ two skinny branches, nearly longer than the boy was tall.

“Hey, hey, careful, kid. Careful!” 

Jack was all smilin’, pudgy cheeks, though. “Pa! Pa, look!” Oh, fuckin’ hell, not this shit again. John didn’t have the energy to correct Jack. “We can play ‘knights’ again because I found really good sticks. I think they’re better than the old ones.”

“Yeah,” John sighed. “Looks like it.” He sipped his coffee, eyes wandering ‘round camp. Looking for an out.

“Do you wanna play? They’ll make strong swords, huh?”

John bit the inside of his cheek. He could hardly drag himself off his cot not ten minutes ago, let alone run around, pretending to sword fight with a kid. That ain’t even factoring in his arm. “I-I don’t feel too good, Jack. Ain’t been feeling good for a couple days. Didn’t your ma tell you?”

“She said you were mad at Uncle Arthur because you’re a– a stubborn…” Jack giggled a little then, squintin’ up John. “She used grown-up words I’m not s’posed to say.”

“Yeahh, I bet she did. And– and I ain’t mad at... we’re just–” John really didn’t like feeling compelled to explain to Jack why he and Arthur were upset with one another. That whole mess was a very _need to know_ type a’ thing. “Look, my arm’s killin’ me right now. I can’t be swingin’ any sticks around with you today. Got it all bandaged up, see?” John pulled down his collar a little, so just the white of the bandage showed.

“Oh. Does it hurt?”

“Jack.” It was taking everything in John to remain patient. “Well yeah, it hurts, that’s why–”

“But you… you could use your other arm!” The smile on Jack’s face was so bright and proud because of this simple solution, John winced knowing he had to shoot ‘im down again.

“Listen,” John scrubbed a hand down his face. “How ‘bout you go find Cain, huh? Go play with him. Dogs love sticks.” At least, he was pretty sure. Ol’ Copper had, anyhow. “Teach that critter fetch or somethin’.”

Just as disappointment really set into Jack’s face, Abigail walked by. Glared fiercely at John. He prayed there was a hole nearby he could jump into. Use the sticks Jack found for the cross over his grave.

“Jack! Sweetheart, c’mere.” John didn’t know how Abigail managed to go back and forth, smiling so sweetly to Jack and givin’ John looks cold as winter with only seconds in between those shifts. _Effortless._ Now in his mother’s presence, Jack pouted a little. Maybe John should just take a walk off the dock. “I think I saw Cain pokin’ his nose around the scout fire with Kieran. I’ll meet you over there, all right? Gotta talk to your daddy for a moment, then we’ll take Cain to play on the lakeside, me an’ you. Maybe play fetch with ‘im? How’s that sound?”

Jack smiled up at her like she compelled the sun to rise and as if his world hadn’t just been crushed by John and his grumpiness but a minute ago. Nodded happily and ran in the direction of the scout fire, yellin’ a cheerful “Excuse me!” to Charles as he darted by him.

Abigail and John watched him go, then Abigail rounded a quiet fury on John. All he wanted to do was sit. Didn’t even much want his damn coffee anymore.

“If it weren’t for you bein’ so busy nursin’ what is apparently the _hangover to end all hangovers,_ I’d have you march down to the beach with him and that dog right now. But the boy knows when your heart ain’t in it, John.” Abigail kept her voice down, despite the thick way it dripped with sarcasm and disappointment. She side-eyed John. And here it comes, he thought. “Wouldn’t have got yerself in whatever trouble if you didn’t soak your brains in liquor. And wouldn’t have gotten s’damn drunk if you weren’t such a pigheaded fool. You’re pullin’ the same shit you did with me, back before. Only Arthur has a sufferance I most certainly do not, God bless him.”

John tried to open his mouth to defend himself, ‘cause it weren’t the same at all, but Abigail quickly continued on.

“You can’t keep runnin’ from things what make you uncomfortable, John. Life – especially ours – is scary. Lots of things is. And so’s love.”

Suckin’ his teeth, John interjected, “You don’t know the half of it with him…”

“You think I don’t know how it is? Every day of my life is terrifying because of how much I love that boy.” Abigail tipped her chin in the direction of Jack, now with Kieran holdin’ him up so he could pat one of Arthur’s gentle giants, Blondie, on the neck. Jack reached up to ruffle the horse’s forelock. “Sometimes we have to do difficult things to protect the people we love. And I think that’s all Arthur’s tryin’ to do. Man’s tired of losin’ people he cares about. I can tell it hurts him, keepin’ you away sometimes. Puttin’ even more distance between you two ain’t how to fix it, though. Be patient, and give him time. You can’t run no more, John. No matter how scared you get.” She turned her gaze back on him, softer this time. “You gotta grow up someday, before it’s too late. All of us do at some point. Can’t run from or– or avoid the problems you think you got, ‘cause they’re still gonna be the same when you get back. Don’t change anything.”

“S’what’re you sayin’?” John scoffed. “I shouldn’t come back next time?”

“No, you moron, I’m sayin’ maybe work on _fixin’_ those problems for once. Then you ain’t gotta run off.”

John thought a minute, chewin’ that over in his mind.

“An’ what if I’m the problem?”

Crossing her arms, Abigail rolled her eyes. “You _are_ impossible, John Marston.” She started walkin’ away, but turned and pointed a finger passed John, towards the lake. “I can handle Jack, but yer on your own with him.”

“What?” John quickly glanced over his shoulder, saw Arthur and Sadie conversating over coffee and a smoke, close to the water, not far off. He looked back to Abigail, but she just rolled her eyes again and shook her head, off to grab Jack. 

Shit.

The smell of wet sand, tobacco smoke, and clear lake water greeted John’s nose as he approached Arthur and Sadie. He didn’t want to interrupt, so he pretended to drink his coffee, dippin’ his nose into his cup just enough to get a pleasant whiff of the stuff. Sidled up to Arthur, but didn’t say nothin’, just kept his eyes on the deep, green-blue of Flat Iron.

“Well, shit!” Sadie started. “Look who it is! Rejoined the land of the livin'. How you makin’ out there, John?”

Arthur turned to him briefly, didn’t look the most pleased.

“Not great, but– I’ve managed worse.” John gestured to his face with a smirk. Sipped his coffee, tried to hide a grimace. Tasted like bile in his mouth now.

Sadie smiled, droppin’ her cigarette onto the sand. “Good to hear. Can’t have you laid up too long, now. We need our strongest... more than ever.” She clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

The look she gave Arthur and him… John didn’t know what it was, but he knew he didn’t like it. Made ‘im feel… _seen._

“She uh, she know?” John asked as Sadie left them to their apparent privacy.

Arthur remained quiet for a long pause. John didn’t like that, either.

“Just... ain’t corrected her on what she thinks she knows.”

“Yeah? And what exactly is it she thinks? ‘Cause the way I see it, reckon you don’t want anyone else knowin’ or thinkin’ nothing about us. More ears it’s spoken to, the more mouths that can talk.”

Arthur leered at him while taking a drag from his cigarette. “Now I know you ain’t _that_ stupid.” Another long pause. John pretended to drink his coffee again just to fill the space this awkwardness was creating with something. “It’s about _who_ knows. Ain’t no one here gonna lead law to us two over this, ‘cause then they lead ‘em to _all of us._ Still don’t feel… guess I ain’t ready.” Arthur lifted one shoulder in a guilty shrug, tossed his cigarette down and crushed it into the sand with the toe of his boot. Kept his head down. “Ain’t ready for everyone to know, not while the Pinks is sniffin’ around us.”

“So you said.” Wasn’t as if John wanted to go ‘round telling everyone who crossed his path. Certainly not any strangers. Definitely not them. Not like they could if either of ‘em wanted to say, anyway. But he knew that. If a Pinkerton agent thought maybe Arthur and John seemed too close, well… John was ashamed to say he didn’t trust every person in the gang to not sell ‘em out if they knew. If they were pressed about it by a lawman. John was even more ashamed to say that he wouldn’t blame ‘em if that kinda scenario played out.

“Once things die down–” Arthur sighed, frowned at the packed sand shifting beneath his boots– “maybe then. I can’t promise anything, though.” This time, Arthur did look at John.

“Sorry I have been... a real selfish fool. Pushin’ you.”

Arthur touched John’s arm, held it there, a light grip. And goddamnit, but John would always want more. Would never have the restraint that Arthur so clearly displayed for matters like this.

“It’s one thing, if I’m the one caught out, John. But you– with you I can’t abide by havin'–”

The sun, John was sure of it, made him feel sick. That overwhelming brightness was back. A brightness that burned into his goddamn brain, right behind his eyes. He couldn’t listen to Arthur anymore. Too bright, too burnin’ hot, searing beneath his skin.

“You– you uh…” John trailed off, trying to gather the words to lift them off his weak tongue. “Does it feel real hot to you– the sun?” For a handful of seconds, John was able to see Arthur’s perplexed expression darken into a shadow of concern.

Black, fuzzy tendrils invaded the edges of John’s vision, and he lost his breath, falling to his knees like they’d been cut out from under him. Dropped his cup in favour of clutchin’ at his stomach, feeling like he just took a skinning knife to the gut. Like someone was pullin’ it up towards his ribs, his heart.

John braced his hands on his knees and vomited, curled over towards the sand. Closed his eyes. If he could just lie down…

Strong hands on him, holding him. Arthur’s voice in his ear, loud and panicky. John opened his eyes and suddenly the world was nearly sideways. He was half-lifted, half-dragged upwards, Arthur askin’ him if he could stand. There was a whirlwind of voices around him. Arthur, Sadie at his other side, he thought. Others comin' to see what the fuss was. Dutch hollerin’.

John's own agonised cries tearing up from his already burning throat.

“Quiet 'im down!” Sadie, at his left. Shouldering his weight.

“An' how you s'pose I do that?”

“Hell if I should know! John– _John,_ we're gonna walk you to your tent, all right? Me an’ Arthur. We got you. Ain't far. Can't let Jack see him like this.”

John ain't ever been bit by a venomous snake, but he'd heard enough about it, and seen enough to know it was a God-awful thing to experience. Right now, he was pretty sure that was what it felt like, in his arm. Felt like his veins were pumping liquid fire through his body.

He lost his footing again, doubled over. Thought he might bring up more of his stomach for how sick the pain had him feelin', but then Arthur was hoistin' him up, carrying him through the darkness of his tent to drop him in a heap onto his cot. One of the last things he remembered is seeing Abigail’s face, and Sadie tellin’ her something about getting Swanson. Then all John saw was black, black, _black._

When John woke again, he had no idea what time it was, where he was, or which way was up or down. He’d only got blackout drunk a few times in his life, and this disorientation upon waking was somethin’ like that. He stirred, and it took immense effort to roll onto his back, nearly just as much to pry his eyelids open. The way light and shadow diffused across his surroundings slowly made it apparent John was in his own tent. Sketchy recollection came back to him and he wondered what Swanson fuckin’ dosed ‘im with. John looked to his right and saw Arthur, fast asleep on his side, one arm pillowing his head. His lips were slightly parted and he looked peaceful in a way he hardly did anymore. John hated to wake him.

Arthur’s wiry-looking stubble was surprisingly soft beneath John’s knuckles as he dragged them up and down Arthur’s jaw. When his eyes cracked open, John whispered, “Hey, what’re you still doing here?”

For a few seconds, Arthur lifted his head up as if searchin’ the tent for something or someone, then rested back down, closer to John’s side when it seemed he was satisfied they were alone. “Was _sleepin’.”_ The words were spoken against John’s temple and Arthur tried squeezin’ himself tighter against John. That jarred John’s arm some. He became very aware of the pain throbbing through the bite again. John hissed through his teeth, reflexively flinching away, causing Arthur to pick his head up again. “Shit, John. Sorry, I… how you feelin’?”

“About the same, I think? Maybe worse.” John hadn’t realised he went back to stroking the line of Arthur’s jaw until Arthur folded his fingers over John’s, bringing their hands to lay between them. “Got no energy. Feels like all my muscles are on fire.”

Arthur hummed and nodded. “Charles and Hosea both don’t believe it’s a snake bite you’re sufferin’ from. Least not any venom.” John felt slightly vindicated. Like he wasn’t crazy. Arthur suddenly looked more awake while a deep scowl grooved his forehead. “Swanson was suggesting bloodlettin’ of all things. You do got a nasty infection, apparently. But I told ‘im he’d be the only one letting his blood spill if he got near you with a knife. Fuckin’ nonsense…”

John swallowed tightly at the thought of it. In a clean union suit now, John looked down at the fresh bandaging across his chest and shoulder. There was a flare of embarrassment as he hoped it was Arthur who had helped change his clothes while he was passed out.

“Hosea cleaned the bite with some moonshine.” A fleeting smile appeared on Arthur’s face. “Wanted to cut to free the infection, cauterise it, too. Charles told ‘im not to just yet, to hold off. Said somethin’ about a salve of honey he knows how to make that would work. Supposin’ it’s what he gave me for my gunshot. Guess Dutch is lettin’ him run into Saint Denis tomorrow to pick some things up for it.”

John thought of the awful scar that marred the front of Arthur’s shoulder. “We’re two unlucky bastards, huh?”

“Marston, you got luck unlike any son of a bitch I’ve ever met. Now, think you should get some more sleep.” And before John could ask, Arthur added, “Wish I– wish I could stay…”

“Yeah, me too. Go on and slip out before somebody notices.” John didn't mean for the words to be said so acidicly, but his last couple days of spendin' time with Arthur have been with him leavin', and the inescapable void that follows.

Arthur seemed to understand, giving John a thin smile. He lifted himself up off the cot and helped John shimmy back towards the middle. They offered one another a simple goodnight as the kerosene lamp was extinguished, and John was left with the nothingness in the dark once again.

Nearing the precipice of waking, the nightmarish images burned into John's mind as he slept were of pale, colourless sunlight sparkling in reflected red ripples of water. Overturned canoes bobbing with the push of the breeze. So many of them. John walked towards the shore, a shore of sand whiter than bone. He reached the water's edge, and his feet suddenly felt so cold, his soles prickling with needle-fine pain. John glanced down to see that he was barefoot, standing in slush where snow and lake met. His eyes scanned the water. It dawned on him, with a sickening realisation, that those were not overturned canoes or boats of any kind, but the shapes of bodies floating face-down.

So many of them.

By the clothing, John recognised each person embraced by the weightlessness of that murky abyss. There was a splash to his right, and he startled, turning to see a large grey wolf running out of the water, shakin’ itself off once it came to a stop several feet away. But the wolf’s pelt twisted over its body as if time had slowed to a crawl. Back and forth. Crimson-tinged fur streaked the snow like arterial spray. Like ink spilling unrushed across a blank page. John was goddamn hypnotised.

Something forced John to face forward again; a presence, a pressure change in the air around him. Suddenly, Arthur was walking towards him, drenched, but there wasn’t a hint of red on him. John felt somethin’ like relief because of it. Water– it was just normal water. Just like the wolf, Arthur stopped once his feet hit the snow. Arthur seemed confused, that was how he looked, anyhow. He gestured at John.

_“You’re bleeding.”_

Looking down at his shoulder immediately, John expected his bite wound to have bled through the bandages again, maybe through his shirt, but he saw nothing. When he looked back up, Jack was there, holding Arthur’s hand. Jack slowly raised his arm, small fist balling until his index finger pointed up at John.

“Why are you bleeding, Pa? Does it hurt?”

John opened his mouth to speak, but blood poured down his chin. His eyes widened in horror, watching as a score of red was drawn across Arthur’s throat at the same time. Arthur’s face remained impassive, even as blood fell in thin streams from the slice. Jack didn’t seem to notice. Again, John tried to speak, to call out to Arthur, or Jack, who for some fuckin’ reason, still didn’t seem scared one bit. John was terrified, though. He had no voice, could only scramble to catch the blood leaking from his mouth. It stained his hands, his shirtfront, the snow at his feet.

All at once, the people floating in the water rose. Eyes cold and unblinking. _Black._ They walked in the direction of the shore. In these husks of people, his friends and family, John felt no familiarity. Something inside him _knew_ they were wrong. Knew they were comin’ for him. And then one by one, their throats were slit by an unseen hand, much like Arthur’s. John stumbled forward on shaky legs, tryin’ to say Arthur’s name again, trying to grab for him, making no leeway. Finally, John thought he might be able to reach Arthur as he walked towards John. Just as John was about to put his hand out, he saw someone standing with their back hugged against Arthur’s. Someone clad in black. From around Arthur’s shoulder, the _vampire_ spun towards John, his arm poised in the air, ornate dagger glinting in the sunlight above John’s head.

Abruptly, John awoke in a panic, gasping for breath. He sat up and swung his legs off the side of the cot. It was still pitch black in his tent, but his eyes adjusted quicker than usual. He’d never had such a horribly vivid nightmare in his life. Not even in the terrifying dreams he’d had as a kid after Dutch rescued him from the noose, or after the shit in Blackwater, and not even during the fever of infection following his wolf attack. He groaned and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, glad his skin did not come back wet with blood.

Out of nowhere, John was struck with a paranoid thought. He rushed for his small table, scrambling in the dark for his matchbox. Removing the glass globe, he turned the wick up on his lamp, and with a shaking hand, attempted to light a match. His first three tries were frustratingly unsuccessful, the fourth only working by very carefully bringing the lit match to the wick. John nearly dropped the globe, his hands shook so violently.

John pressed the palm of his left hand to his shoulder. No pain. He gripped the top of his bicep and squeezed hard. Nothin’. Was almost afraid to look beneath the bandage. Fuckin’ hell… Normally, he’d be happy about an injury healin’ up. This just made John nervous. Pushing his union suit off his shoulders, John angled himself closer to the light. Began tearing off his bandages. The white cotton unspooled at his feet. Silvery, pale scars were revealed where the bite had been. Unreal. Un-fuckin’-real. John traced a finger over the twin marks, they were completely flattened as if they’d been healed for years. His heart began racing. What the hell was happening?

As John shrugged the top half of his union suit back on, he felt a widespread ache thrum throughout his body; it nearly brought him to his knees. He needed… water, something… his throat felt dry as dirt. And there was an incessant hunger that twisted a lot like thirst deep in his gut. A writhing, living thing within him, scraping at his insides, vining around his brain. Tellin’ him to go, to flee, to _hunt._

John couldn’t comprehend what he was feeling. He pulled on his pants and boots, then rummaged around for his jacket and gunbelt. Pocketed a box of bullets and grabbed his hat on his way out of his tent. Maybe he should head into Saint Denis, see a real goddamned doctor. This had to be another nightmare. Another fucked up fever dream. John grabbed Old Boy’s saddle, prayin’ that if there was some kinda god up there in the sky, they’d make sure his legs didn’t give out under carrying the weight. Surprisingly, the tack felt lighter as he hefted it up off the saddle rack. All right then.

He made it through camp to Old Boy without too much stumblin’ around. Main thing was– he didn’t wake no one. Nothin’ else filled his mind besides getting out, gettin’ gone because– because _Christ,_ he didn’t know what he was going to do if he stayed here another minute. Part of him was screaming that it weren’t safe, not for the others.

It was John’s mistake for not anticipating a guard watch on the east side of the shore. He pulled back lightly on Old Boy’s reins to slow him into a stop as Charles called out.

“John? That you?”

“Yeah. Hey, look… I– I’ll be back in a little while. Just need to ride out for a bit.”

Charles walked closer, John could tell he was uncertain about John’s pitifully vague answer. “Anything I can help with?” _Are you in any trouble,_ didn’t need to be spoken for John to hear it in Charles’s voice.

He was a good man, and if John couldn’t trust ‘imself, he could at least trust Charles. “I uh, I’m feelin’ a little suffocated, y’know? What with bein’ laid up and all. Sleepin’ all day. Just a short ride, is all. Went kinda stir-crazy right after Colter, ain’t fit to feel like that again.”

“I understand. Well, be safe.” John nodded, but before he could get movin’ again, Charles asked him, “You sure everything’s all right, John?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Won’t be too long, promise.” For all John knew, he was probably tellin’ a lie. Making a promise he’d not be able to keep. He clicked his tongue and nudged his heels against Old Boy’s sides. They took off at a trot down the shoreline.

Soon, John was feelin’ feverish again. Weakening. He began to sag in the saddle. Every impact of his horse’s hooves against the earth vibrated through John’s bones. The pain in his body became overwhelming again. And frankly, John wasn’t aware of what direction he’d been steering Old Boy anymore. He was winded, as if they’d been goin’ at a gallop for miles. John leaned forward, panting against Old Boy’s neck. The smell of horse and dirt was pungent. But beneath that…

John’s fingers loosened on the reins. There was a warm song, humming to ‘im from beneath Old Boy’s coarse hair, his skin. A slow force, singing to John below muscle and sinew. An intermittent rush that made John’s mouth water.

“No, no…” He grimaced. Bent his brow against Old Boy’s pale mane. His chest tightened. “God help me…” John lost his grip, dipping to the side, limbs going all tingly. Nearly got one leg tangled up in the stirrup as his body hit the ground. Slow. Everything felt slow.

The wind was knocked out of him and he coughed painfully, rolling onto his back in the grass. Old Boy let out a single whinny, then murmured to him softly, pawing a hoof at the ground near John’s head. John stared up at the stars. They seemed brighter than ever. The blue-black sky, sifting out the light like flecks of gold. He concentrated on that through the pain, didn’t have the strength to seek out the moon. John’s heart slowed, beat like a gust of wind in his ears every few seconds. Every inch of him felt cold, but he couldn’t move, no matter how much he wanted to curl into a ball, trap what body heat he had left against ‘imself. Could only lie there, staring at the goddamned stars, feeling his pulse fall further away each minute that passed. And then, John’s lungs constricted, as if he were drowning. He tried callin’ out, for God knows what. There were so many stars out in the darkness.

So many bodies.

Body in the alleyway. _Red and red and redder._ John trying to grapple with the strange man who bit him. John’s knife sinking into his neck. Blood spattered into John’s mouth.

Blood in his mouth.

John heaved one last breath, and everything was still. Everything was nothing at all.

Campfire smoke filled John’s nostrils. He didn’t expect to see a field surrounding him when he opened his eyes. With the way things had been goin’ for him recently, he honestly expected to be wakin’ up back at Clemens Point again. In his damn tent. Turning his head to the left, John saw smoke billowing upwards from a copse of trees. There was a soft tearing sound nearby. John grunted as he sat up onto his elbows. Off ahead of him a few yards was Old Boy, munching away at the grass. Lipping at the tall blades before ripping at it with his teeth. The field smelled so sweet.

Another, different type of sweetness permeated the air. It came from the direction of the campfire… and from Old Boy. John got to his feet, dusted himself off and found his hat a couple feet away. With two whistles in quick succession, John got the attention of his horse.

“Heyy, Boy.” John reached up and smoothed his hand down the velvet of Old Boy’s nose once he was near. He grabbed the reins and flung them over the horse’s head. “Sorry if I gave you a scare, now. Thanks for stickin’ around.” A click of his tongue, and John started leading Old Boy towards the scent of burning wood, ignoring the way a knot of hunger leapt out of every pore as it listened closely to the beast’s pulse behind him.

They walked to the edge of the treeline. John dropped Old Boy’s reins, hoping like hell his horse would stay ground tied for now. He dug a crumbling oat cake out of one of his saddlebags and offered it to Old Boy as some sort of enticement to stay put. Then he looked at all the green grass and wildflowers surrounding them and shrugged. Ah, what the hell. John tried to remain optimistic that Old Boy wouldn’t wander too far so that he’d still come when called if shit went real sideways.

John reached into his coat for the crushed ammo box and loaded his revolver. Kinda wished he had a knife on ‘im. He stuffed a handful of cartridges into his pocket and walked on through the trees. Something instinctual told John he would not need to rely on man-made weaponry soon.

Didn’t need to see green neckerchiefs or vests to know this was an O’Driscoll camp, considering all the cans of food, liquor bottles, and men that were strewn about the small circle of wagons and bedrolls. John crouched low, watching the weight of his footfalls so as not to spook the horses. He could sense no one was awake guarding the campsite. John holstered his gun. This would be too easy. Booze mixed with their blood, thinning it. Dripped into their brains, drowning everything out so they all slept like the dead. John grinned to himself. Goddamn, was he hungry. That’s when the pain in his jaw and hands came screaming back.

_Screaming._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving this a go, and I hope you've enjoyed what I have so far♥  
> I am not sure how long this will be just yet, but I do know it won't be anywhere near as lengthy as _Follow Some Other Storm._
> 
> *Chapter title taken from a song by Poison the Well of the same name.


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